


Fifty Ways to Kiss Someone

by BlueTwo



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:21:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21766003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueTwo/pseuds/BlueTwo
Summary: Collection of twitter shorts for the "50 Ways to Kiss Someone" prompt list.(1) Hubert & Lorenz + "out of spite"(2) Claude/Lorenz + "out of habit"(3) Claude/Lorenz + "to give up control"(4) Ferdinand/Hubert + "to shut them up"
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir & Lorenz Hellman Gloucester, Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra, Lorenz Hellman Gloucester & Hubert von Vestra, Lorenz Hellman Gloucester/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 8
Kudos: 150





	1. Hubert & Lorenz [out of spite]

The wood in the fireplace shudders under the blaze, black and crumbling—practically ash, only fragments left to keep the prime minister’s spacious quarters from giving into the midnight gloom. With a pointed sigh that goes ignored by the two glossy heads pressed together before it, Hubert forces himself up out of the comfort of his armchair to grab a fresh log and toss it onto the flame. A flurry of sparks rushes out in a blistering cloud, finally jolting the pair as they scramble backwards.

“Do be more careful with that,” Ferdinand scolds, empty wine glass dangling from the hand he has propped over his knee in his retreat. “We could have been burned.”

“Inconsiderate man,” Lorenz tuts, lifting his appropriated wine bottle to his lips— only to pout when he finds not a single drop left.

Hubert rolls his eyes and takes the bottle from him to place a glass of water in its stead.

Holding it at arm’s length like a filthy rag between only two fingers, Lorenz scoffs. “And now this? You would torture my broken heart further with the insult of a clear mind?”

“Let both your heart and your head suffer, then, when you wake in the morning and your wine has forsaken you.”

Ferdinand huffs and takes the water from Lorenz to set it down on the floor. He holds out a hand for an unopened bottle, instead. “Oh, come now, Hubert. It’s not that serious.”

Apparently this doesn’t sit well with Lorenz; the flickering fire reveals a damp sheen to his eyes even though he has his head turned away. “Oh, but it is,” he laments, throwing an arm over his face and falling back onto the carpet in a fit of dramatics. The procured and abandoned glass of water pitches over, knocked aside by the force of his sharp elbow. It splashes the lavender muslin of his sleep shirt and soaks the rug besides. Lost in his own despair, he lets it happen. He doesn’t so much as react when Ferdinand yelps and hurries to right the now hollow glass, or when Hubert kneels at his side to clean up the spill with a towel from the dresser.

Completely unbothered by his translucent shirt or the puddle beneath him, Lorenz moves only to wave him off. “Oh, just leave it, Vestra. If I’m lucky, I will drown. Taken out by my own foolishness— as is fitting!”

At his limit for theatrics, Hubert drops the dripping towel on Lorenz’s face, still covered by his own hand and suspiciously wet despite having come nowhere near the spilled drink. “You would not dare give me the satisfaction,” he says.

Lorenz scrambles to shove the towel off and fling it away, sitting up with the seething ferocity of an outraged cat. He is scowling and sad and too pathetic for Hubert to reasonably deal with at such an unreasonable hour. The moment draws out between them, heavy with the specter of von Riegan’s indiscretion and Hubert’s utter indifference.

“Not if I can help it,” Lorenz agrees finally, scrubbing at his cheeks with the back of his hand. The hour and the alcohol have taken their toll, extracted their price from his sorrow in bloodshot eyes and sagging shoulders.

Ferdinand pats his knee—a simple comfort—and lifts his gaze to Hubert, beseeching and beautiful.

“Very well,” Hubert sighs. He fetches another full bottle of wine—as well as the water ewer—and returns to where the two are ensconced on the carpet. He sets them down, along with two clean glasses, dutifully out of harm’s way on the side table nestled against his now vacant chair.

“Thank you, Hubert,” Ferdinand says genuinely, and reaches out. But instead of the wine, his hand wraps around Hubert’s, and despite having nothing to drink himself, Hubert can’t help the way his face heats at the fond gratitude glowing in the embers of Ferdinand’s eyes.

He looks away quickly, and pulls his hand free. “If anything, I should be thanking your friend for confirming my distaste for von Riegan to be justified.”

Ferdinand only smiles. It’s smug and sees right through him, and Hubert loves it so.

“Prime Minister,” he says briskly, and drops a farewell kiss to Ferdinand’s temple that he oh-so-temptingly leans into.

Lorenz pointedly averts his gaze, no doubt such easy affection a painful wound to his already aching heart. When Hubert lets go of Ferdinand, he turns to him. “Gloucester,” he says, and clasps his limp, listless hand to press a firm kiss to his gloved knuckles.

Lorenz gasps, yanking it away. He cradles it to his chest, scandalized, as if Hubert’s very touch is poison.

Wasting no further time, Hubert bows to both of them and takes his leave, a smirk on his lips as he ponders the possibilities of revenge.


	2. Claude/Lorenz [out of habit]

A page in Gloucester livery announces himself with a perfunctory rap on the open door of Claude’s study. “Pardon the interruption, my lord,” he says, “but the shipment from Enbarr has arrived.”

Claude straightens from where he was pointing out a flaw in a fortress’ placement to fist his hands on his hips. “Fortuitous,” he says, light-hearted but reproachful— suggesting this is _not_ a good enough reason to cut in on a private council meeting.

The page swallows, eyes flicking from the Duke to his liege. “They have explicit instructions that the shipment be delivered directly to Count Gloucester.”

“And under the horse’s hooves you go,” Claude grins, swinging to face Lorenz. “What in Fódlan could be so important that a package supersedes official Alliance business, Count Gloucester?” The rest of the small council—Leonie, Hilda, and Lysithea—chuckle with him, and Lorenz flusters at the attention. As the one often charged with keeping the others sufficiently on task, he is ever loathe to be the source of a disruption himself.

Inevitably, his mouth quirks in displeasure at the interruption. “I cannot begin to fathom,” he mutters. Combing his fingers through his hair, he smoothes some loose strands back into place. “I suppose I must make an appearance, then.”

“Ferdie must have sent along something special for you,” Hilda speculates, chin cradled in her palm. When Lorenz shakes his head, she smacks her lips in a beseeching pout. “Well, if you don’t want it, you should definitely give whatever it is to me.”

Leonie pulls a face and stops scrubbing at where ink has smeared on her wrists from her notes. “More likely it’s something nefarious from the emperor’s pet rat, instead. Keep a sharp eye, Lorenz.”

“If Vestra wanted to kill me,” he sighs, pushing himself to his feet by bracing himself on Hilda’s shoulder with a much needed stretch— they’ve been at work since just after dawn, and have yet to break for lunch even though noon has since passed— “I’d long be peacefully at rest. Unlike the lot of you, left to re-structure trade route defenses without me.”

“As if I’d ever let that happen,” Claude scolds with obvious affection. Heedless of the maps, he plants a hand on the table to lean forward. “You have to suffer with the rest of us— no easy outs. Except, of course, when you’re called off on _mail duty_.”

“Indeed.” Lorenz offers him a small, weary smile. “The cross of your company is mine to bear, for better or worse.”

As he skirts the table to follow the page to the courtyard where the shipment is waiting, he dallies by Claude’s side. “Try not to undo all of our hard work while I’m gone,” he teases, gloved fingers tarrying, dragging a trail along the grain of the wood next to where Claude’s own glove props him up against the table.

“I can’t say I won’t make an effort, but you know how I get,” Claude tells him. His fingers twitch, but stay put, withstanding the temptation before them. “I’m hopeless without you to keep me in line.”

“You only say that so I’ll be suitably impressed with your progress when I return.”

“Maybe— do you think it will work?”

“You have an impressive track record thus far.”

Lorenz reaches up to flick the usual offending stray strand of hair out of Claude’s eyes, hand dropping to his shoulder as he finally rounds him to take his leave. Before he lets go, he leans down. His mouth presses a fond kiss to the opposite shoulder, the heat of it felt even through the fabric of Claude’s shirtsleeves.

With no further ceremony, he follows the page out and doesn’t look back.

Which leaves Claude to bear the full brunt of everyone’s stares.

He clears his throat, quickly shuffling documents into a mess that _someone_ will have to sort later. “Anyway,” he starts.

“— _Anyway_?” Hilda repeats, throwing her hands in the air and gesturing wildly at the door Lorenz just glided through without a care. “What in the name of Sothis was that?”

Lysithea fakes a wretching noise, that, on second thought, could very well be genuine. “I can’t believe you made me see that. With my _eyes_.”

“Wallahi,” Claude mutters under his breath as Lysithea and Leonie argue over how long “whatever that was”—Lysithea’s words—has been going on.

Fódlan is full of drama queens, he thinks solemnly; and he brought this upon himself by falling in love with one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> maybe the special shipment contains something valuable.................... such as a ring.............................. who knows


	3. Claude/Lorenz [to give up control]

Almyra is home, and it is not home.

But it is, above all else, familiar— a land of arid deserts and craggy mountains, of fertile riverbeds that overflow with weeds and, at times, enough water to drench the fields and destroy a harvest. It is a sturdy land for a hardy people; resplendent with sun and heat and vibrant, natural color. The only time Fódlan looks the same is under the cover of night, Nanna and Ningal’s court washing the trees in shades of shadow that complement the wise lord’s glowing face. Since birth, Claude has had a foot in both kingdoms; and so, while he thrives in the sun, he operates better at night— guard lowered like he never allows. For a time, he can focus on the future without wearing out the soles of his shoes on the sharp edges his lies force him to walk.

Of course, Claude knows better than to get too comfortable. No temptation, no peaceful solitude can quite unknot _that_ tension in his shoulders, strung tight by a frightened child and left a mess for the sake of survival.

When he sees the candlelight spilling out from below the closed door of his workroom, he does not panic. Instead, he narrows his eyes and covers the rest of the distance on his toes, back to the wall to keep him from alerting the occupant of his presence. All the others have long since gone to sleep; he had checked as he headed through the monastery’s sleeping quarters and found no bed empty but his own. And no mere soldier would presume to invade their leader’s office.

From under his shirt, Claude slides a dagger from its custom, hidden sheath. He slides the fine blade between the door and the jamb, triggering the lock without a sound. The door swings open, but no exclamation comes from within. Not only a candle has been lit; Claude can hear the crackle of the fireplace. Underneath that, however, there’s nothing else. No shift of fabric, no footsteps, not even the crinkling of papers. Whoever waits inside isn’t using the opportunity to uncover Alliance secrets or battle plans, but neither have they reacted to the open door and the knowledge they most certainly have company.

Dagger first, Claude enters.

And promptly drops it to the ground, where it clatters in its own steely gasp of surprise.

Lorenz Hellman Gloucester leans against the large table in the center of the room. It’s a table Claude has used every day to scribble notes and review missives and plot the course of history, yet Lorenz keeps his back to the strewn maps and sensitive documents to stare into the fire with crossed arms. The blazing orange and gold flickers upon his icy pale complexion, melting its customary pristine pretension into a puddle of uncertainty that pools at his mouth. His hair is longer; his shoulders, broader. He looks at once both delicate and strong— a living, breathing man, rather than a porcelain doll perfectly crafted to gather dust on his father’s shelf.

The clang of the dagger fails to startle him— almost as if he expected it. Claude wonders how someone like Lorenz knows him well enough to expect _anything_ from him. Lorenz used to fuss over his frivolity, his unpredictability; it never occurred to Claude that he could develop patterns, let alone ones Lorenz would care enough to memorize.

“Are you going to get that?” Lorenz asks after several painfully stretched moments. He rubs the heel of his gauntlet against the bags under his eyes. Unlike Claude, he spent his academy nights tucked away in bed.

“Nah,” Claude says, his voice as casual as everything else is not. “I don’t think I’ll need it.” He holds his breath and waits. “Will I need it, Lorenz?”

“At school you never required the use of a weapon to cut deep. Has five years changed that much?”

Claude steps over the dagger.

“What are you doing here?” he pushes. “Gloucester has fallen in line with the Empire. According to my sources, you and your father were to report to Enbarr last week.”

Lorenz hums. “And yet here I stand.”

“I never took you for one to get lost.”

Finally, Lorenz looks at him. “Lost,” he repeats, tasting the word like a sip of expensive tea. “On the contrary. I think I’ve finally found my way.”

Claude scoffs. “And which way is that?”

“My father is not a good man; I have foolishly placed my trust in him for too long.” Lorenz uncrosses his arms, bracing himself on the corner of the table with such a tight grip that Claude wonders if whatever weight straining his shoulders is so heavy he needs it to stay up.

But it’s a night for surprises, clearly, because Lorenz then crosses the space between them and falls to one knee. He’s a picture out of a Faerghan storybook, the gallant knight in dazzling gold and violet armor at the foot of his liege, pledging his life and honor. The shining trim of his breastplate could be gold vellum, his lush red mouth the dreamy drip of a master’s watercolor brush.

He braces one fist on his chest. The other reaches for Claude’s bare hand. Claude almost jolts and tears it away, but Lorenz and his earnest gaze keep him pinned in place, barely breathing to preserve the sanctity of the silence between them.

His gauntlet is cool against his fingers, but his breath on them is warm, so warm, like Claude has stepped outside into a summer rain.

Lorenz beseeches him with his violet gaze, desperate and so devoted; Claude has never seen anything like it. “If you would have me,” he says, “I would much rather place it foolishly in you, instead.”

“Does that make me a good man in your eyes, then?”

Lorenz presses his lips lightly to the back of Claude’s hand—a barely there brush that tickles like a butterfly’s perch. An act of reverence, of _fealty_. It is a vow. Stately. Sacred. It leaves Claude’s knuckles feeling scraped and raw like they’ve just thrown a hard punch instead.

“And in my heart, as well.”

Lorenz has always been a puzzle box, so closed off yet begging to be teased open, given the proper time and care. He’s always fascinated Claude that way— the complexity of a man so completely free of duplicity.

To be so forthright, and never falter— ?

It terrifies Claude.

So he laughs. It’s comfortable, easy, _false_ —everything Lorenz and his pledge are not. With it he shakes his hand free, and hides how much he would like to crush the skin where Lorenz kissed to his own mouth, if only for a fleeting taste of what he can’t have.

“Come on, get up,” he says lightly. “I find it unsettling to be looking down on you. Besides, you know better than anyone that I’m not one for ceremony.”

Lavender lashes lower with Lorenz’s slender chin. “Ah,” he chuckles, but it lacks anything resembling humor. “Of course.” He clears his throat, and when his eyes find Claude’s again, they’re clear and sharp: Claude’s dismissal sandpaper to his vulnerable heart, grating it until all that’s left are harsh lines, his affection worn down to flecks of dust to be swept away. He regains his feet, graceful and tall and unbearable. “Still no respect for the sanctity of tradition, I see.”

“Tradition is a grand word, entirely too grand to be defined by one place or culture,” Claude hedges.

A softness returns to curl at the corner of Lorenz’s mouth, a ghost of the kiss Claude can’t return. Claude suddenly feels too hot to be standing so calmly in front of this beautiful man who has always been good at getting under his skin.

“Yes,” Lorenz agrees. “My worldview is still more limited than is befitting a man of my station.” He nods his head in both farewell and acquiescence, his shoulder close to Claude’s as he takes his leave— but not quite touching. “With your help, I look forward to broadening it.”

Then he leaves, closing the door behind him. The heels of his boots clack hollowly against the monastery’s wooden floors, and Claude remains still long after they’ve faded away.

His secrets are itchy at the back of his throat tonight, buzzing like a thousand bees trapped in their hive. With so many lies, he doesn’t deserve Lorenz or his trust; but he will do _everything_ in his power to make sure Lorenz won’t regret it. If he can be truthful about one thing, it will always be that.


	4. Ferdinand/Hubert [to shut them up]

The door to Ferdinand’s study flies open, sheer force slamming it against the wall like a clap of thunder. The mahogany polish creaks in agony; its hinges shudder from the ill use. In its weakened wake looms Count Vestra: an incoming storm fairly crackling with dark magic and murderous intent.

“ _Prime_. _Minister_.” Vestra bites out the words, teeth tearing through them as though they are mere moments from sinking into him instead. At a loss, Ferdinand wonders what he could have possibly done this time. If there is one thing he has more of than anyone else in all of Fódlan—aside from charm, political brilliance, and equine mastery, of course—it is the ire of the Emperor’s Shadow. 

After growing up in the thick of Hubert’s dramatics, however, he is immune to them. Thus he does not roll his eyes—though it is a feat to muster the restraint—and resigns himself to setting down his quill and huffing his hair out of his face. “Yes, Hubert?” he says with the utmost politeness. “Is something the matter?”

“If there were, you would not know, would you?” He stalks forward, towering over the edge of Ferdinand’s desk. Though a slight matchstick of a mage, Hubert fills the space like a bottled miasma, inky tendrils latching onto every corner and drowning it in darkness. A lesser man might be intimidated, but Ferdinand von Aegir is no lesser man. “You were explicitly tasked, _by me_ , to be present at this afternoon’s appointment with the head of the Leicester Alliance. And yet, Her Majesty has presently informed me that you were called away. What could have been so important that it supersedes direct support to your emperor?” 

This time, Ferdinand does roll his eyes. Hubert’s ghastly cheeks mottle red with resentment, but Ferdinand finds himself more inclined to provoke him again than waste precious breath on apologies. After all, if he is to put faith in Hubert’s pointless intimidation tactics, it could very well be his last. “Edelgard decided that one babysitter was enough, and I would prove more useful as a distraction.” Ferdinand leans his head on his hand. “Lorenz and I had a wonderful time at tea, you know.”

“You— you abandoned Her Majesty and left her alone with the wily Von Riegan so you could _take tea_ with the enemy?”

Ferdinand snorts. “‘The enemy.’ Be sure to call him that when you see him at dinner.” 

“This flippancy from you is precisely why—” 

Ferdinand raises a white gloved hand, and deference to the imperious gesture is so ingrained in Hubert's very being that he is brought up short; never say that the Prime Minister doesn’t have a head for tactics. “Did she come to harm?” he asks.

“No, but your negligence could have easily—”

“For goodness’ sake, Hubert. I followed Her Majesty’s order to coax von Riegan’s right hand from the bargaining table, allowing her and our very capable, very deadly Professor to take him on at their leisure.” 

The muscle in Hubert’s jaw twitches, and Ferdinand wonders if that is the one that gets the most consistent workout of all the others in his body, lanky as he is. “Von Riegan is not to be underestimated,” he says finally.

“Nor is the Emperor.”

Hubert snaps his teeth at him, nigh feral in the face of a neglected threat to his life's purpose. Righteous as ever and rather blind for it, Ferdinand thinks. “Do you not understand? Are my words incapable of penetrating that ridiculous blanket of gleaming copper you insist on flipping about? The professor’s presence does not ensure Her Majesty’s safety.” He places a gloved hand flat on the desk, leaning in menacingly. “I instruct you to do one single, simple thing, and you disregard it as you always do, failing to take into account the consequences.”

Unfortunately for Hubert—and oh, he can never tell him, else he might never recover—Ferdinand is not feeling particularly menaced; but the moment allows him the clarity to analyze exactly why Hubert is so upset. Of course, any threat to Her Majesty is paramount to all else; but if Hubert is so irate that Ferdinand was not present… It could only mean that he trusts Ferdinand with Her Majesty’s life and well-being, a much higher compliment than Hubert trusting him with his own. 

The realization rages in his blood like dark magic, a spell Hubert has cast that boils him from the inside out until it can’t help but spill over. He beams at the irritating, insidious man before him and stands to somewhat meet his accusatory eye. 

“This is quite the praise from you, Hubert! You should be more careful with expressing it.” 

“Praise?” Hubert stares at him, utterly confused. 

Ferdinand tilts closer. It is a good thing the desk separates them; otherwise, he’s not sure of what temptations he might fall victim to. “Of course— you said it in your own words. You _trust_ me,” he grins. 

Hubert splutters. “I never— you are more addled than I thought, Prime Minister, if you delude yourself for one moment to think— simply because I know your simpering chivalry and loathsome bravery will keep the emperor from harm no matter the cost it extracts from you, fool as you are—”

No fool can tame a tempest, so perhaps Ferdinand is one to try; but even so, he laughs directly in Hubert's face and cups his jaw, ending his blusterous tirade with a kiss. Hubert freezes against him, indefensible against Ferdinand’s smiling mouth. And when he teases his tongue against Hubert’s firm bottom lip, like a key opening a lock, Hubert opens for him with a soft, creaky moan. 

As soon as Hubert melts against him, Ferdinand pulls back. The corners of amber eyes wrinkle with the utter brilliance of his cheer, his joy obvious and incapable of artifice. “You trust me,” he repeats, his thumb tracing the corner of where the mark of his kiss lingers, unseen but potent.

“Of course,” Hubert says, drawing his sharp chin away, to the side, where he won’t have to bear witness to Ferdinand’s victory. 

But they are two halves of the same whole, and any victory of Ferdinand’s is as surely a victory of Hubert’s, as well. He drops his hand from Hubert’s face to more easily replace it with a consolatory press of his lips. “Next time, I will follow your instructions to the letter, no matter how the Emperor threatens me.” 

The ghost of a smile returns to Hubert’s gaunt cheeks. “I daresay nothing she says will phase you.” 

Ferdinand returns to his seat and his work, picking up the quill again to point it accusingly at Hubert. “And whose fault is that?”

“As ever,” Hubert says, pausing in the door of Ferdinand’s study, “I gladly shoulder the blame.” 


End file.
